


Chicken, Misogyny and Other Reasons We Can Never Go Back to The Ritz

by tasteofdreams



Series: Riding the Storm [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Date Night, F/M, Fancy Restaurants, Lydia can handle herself though, Lydia is exasperated, Stiles demands nothing but complete loyalty to Roscoe, and the defiling thereof, but not really, creepy catcalling, lots of soon-to-be-resolved sexual tension, plus Actual Bodily Harm to a Ferrari always helps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 19:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofdreams/pseuds/tasteofdreams
Summary: Lydia and Stiles get dolled up for a fancy dinner. By the end of the night, they have perhaps ensured that they will never be permitted back inside the upscale restaurant in question. But hey, it's on their own merit, for once, with no supernatural interference, which Stiles is definitely counting as a win.They don't even want to go back there, anyway. Besides, Roscoe's honour was defended and a probably-evil Ferrari was hurt in the process. That's a double-win, really.





	Chicken, Misogyny and Other Reasons We Can Never Go Back to The Ritz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [persnickett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/gifts), [Tattered_Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tattered_Dreams/gifts).

> This is my first fic in this fandom and one of my first posted fics ever. There are numerous things about Teen Wolf that exasperate me, but I adore Stiles and Lydia, both separately and together, so I've been wanting to write something for them for a while. This fic is random, was a complete accident and I'm nervous about posting it, but here we are! Comments gratefully received.

Stiles has, perhaps, been waxing poetic about Roscoe for a  _ few  _ minutes when Lydia's patience apparently wears thin. Alright, maybe, judging from her fond but nevertheless clear exasperation as she decisively lays down her dessert menu, it has been a little more than a couple of minutes. Still, she knows the emotional weight of the "Blue Monstrosity", as she so often calls it, much to Stiles' chagrin, and her voice is soft when she requests a subject change, hand warm in his, even while her words are seemingly sharp. 

“Can we please just focus on dinner, and not on your damn jeep?"

"His name is  _ Roscoe, _ Lydia, and you know it!" His response is half-hearted at best, focus drawn by the smile playing around her mouth, the way the candlelight sets her hair aflame, the affection in her eyes.  _ Distracted by Lydia Martin, _ Stiles thinks wryly,  _ story of my life.  _ They may as well go ahead and engrave that on his headstone, at this point. He’ll be more than happy to spend his whole life this way. 

Still. Roscoe’s honour has been brought into question and Stiles is nothing if not loyal. His love is hard-won but whole-hearted, and his prized jeep has seen him through too many dangers for him to allow its good name to be besmirched now. He narrows his eyes at Lydia to emphasise this.

Their waiter’s timely arrival seems to reinforce the point that Lydia’s callous attack on Roscoe is intolerable. They both give their orders, and Stiles is momentarily thrown off course by the previously-polite waiter’s poorly-disguised judgement when Lydia requests a dessert (the rose petal pannacotta with blow-torched berries, whipped cream, roast peach ice cream and honeycomb - yes, that’s the kind of restaurant it is. It does sound pretty good, though), leaving him fuming. The waiter appears to recognise that they’re aware of his reaction and immediately attempts to overcompensate with obnoxious platitudes, but the damage is already done.

Stiles’ feelings on the subject can be summarised as the following: 

  1. BACK OFF.
  2. BACK OFF, SHE IS _PERFECT!_
  3. Seriously, how can you not see that she's perfect? Like I'm honestly asking.
  4. Wow this is really not okay on a world wide scale. Centuries of misogyny, much?
  5. STOP TRYING TO POLICE WOMEN’S BODIES!!
  6. Watching Lydia passionately enjoy the far-too-occasional dessert is a treat for Stiles, perhaps almost as much as for Lydia herself (as is what usually happens after he has dutifully and, okay, maybe there is a little drool involved, but who's to say, watched the decadent and obviously deliberate display until completion, or she's sufficiently satisfied…) and, okay, that’s besides the point, because this has nothing to do with his own desires and everything to do with Lydia being happy and sexist pigs not judging her for being a human being, but it’s nevertheless true and should be the case for everybody around her (except maybe not the sex part)
  7. Lydia is an independent, strong-willed, incredible person who has every right to eat and do whatever the hell she damn well pleases
  8. Anyone who tries to curtail that right will be promptly destroyed, and rightly so
  9. Hello!? CURVES. Enough said. Lydia’s clearly drop-dead gorgeous and anyone who doesn’t see that is an idiot. And quite possibly blind.

Stiles’ own dessert order is significantly more abrupt than Lydia’s and he glares at the waiter until he retreats, apparently a little bit abashed. Which is the least he deserves, frankly. 

That little misogynistic interlude has successfully derailed Stiles from his impassioned defence of his favourite vehicle and oldest friend besides Scott. As usual, however, his girlfriend is not so easily defeated. Perceptive enough, of course, to recognise the sour turn in Stiles’ mood and its source, she strokes soothing circles with her thumb and leans in for a soft kiss. She rests her forehead against his for a moment before drawing back and giving him a firm nod that tells him she’s okay and they’re moving on because some irrelevant sexist ass is absolutely not going to taint their evening together. 

God, he loves this girl. 

“Hmm,” she returns thoughtfully, casting a considering gaze around them. “Maybe the hunky-looking lawyer type in the eight hundred dollar suit over there would make better company for the dessert course. Bet he even has a Ferrari that would make it all the way home without breaking down.” 

And Stiles may adore her, but this. This is unacceptable. Lydia Martin has finally gone Too Far. Even Stiles cannot forgive her this, and she knows it, if the laughter in her eyes is any indication. 

"Roscoe does just fine, thank you very much. A bit of duct tape and he'll start first time. Okay, maybe fourth time... but that's not the point! Really, it'd be nice to see just a  _ little _ appreciation for all the times he has saved our collective asses.”

Lydia scoffs, but Stiles can see their history unspooling in her eyes, those memories she’d fought so hard to hold onto and which they gently recount to each other on the more difficult nights. 

“He’s had his uses, it’s true, but we’re not in Beacon Hills anymore, Stiles, and his track record against the very  _ natural  _ perils of the Boston winters isn’t exactly stellar.”

“Aha! You said 'he', not 'it'! I knew you loved him really!”

They’re enjoying this back and forth so much that neither of them even deigns to look at their shamed waiter as he delivers their desserts, smiling obsequiously in an apparent effort to undo the effect of his previous behaviour on his prospective tip. As if. 

Stiles watches Lydia happily tuck into her pannacotta and feels love wash through him. Here he is, on a date night with his favourite girl, privy to her pleasure as she eats, smiling indulgently as though she can read his every thought in his expression. Knowing her, she probably can. She’s amazing like that.

Just as Stiles is beginning to feel a little misty-eyed (he really shouldn’t have let Lydia sweet talk him into all that posh wine, he isn’t used to it), he’s rapidly thrown into a rather different response by the way she very deliberately starts in on the whipped cream decorating her plate. The last time he saw Lydia eat whipped cream, she was licking it off his - yeah, okay, they need to be done with this meal very, very soon. 

His girlfriend smirks, confident that she has won. Well, two can play at this game, and really, neither of them can lose. 

“Besides”, he responds easily, aware that his voice is lower and darker than it was a moment ago, “you can pretend all you like, but you and I both know that you're very partial to some quality time in my jeep. In fact, I seem to remember an evening not three days ago when you screamed -"   
  
Stiles trails off abruptly in the face of a severe look from Lydia, although he knows her well enough by now to plainly detect the slight smile she hasn't quite suppressed. She stopped pretending around him long ago, after all.   
  
That’s not to say that she’ll let him get off easy, though. Even years of love and friendship cannot protect him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Rapid-fire repartee helped to cement their relationship, long before either of them truly admitted its depth, and it has become a language all their own, much to their friends’ collective despair. Each of them can read a whole conversation’s worth of feeling in the other’s sarcastic remark or teasing retort. (Which is part of the reason why their loved ones have learnt to beat a hasty retreat once the two of them become particularly committed to such exchanges, dubbing them flirtation rather than conversation.)  
  
"You're not doing yourself any favours, Stiles. Lawyer Guy is looking more appealing by the second..."   
  
Stiles watches her glance contemplatively over at Lawyer Guy’s table, taking Lydia’s moment of feigned distraction as an opportunity to quietly admire her. It’s true that she rarely looks anything but breathtaking to him, whether she’s dressed up to the nines, like tonight, or poring over her research, hair up in a haphazard bun and dwarfed by her favourite of Stiles’ hoodies, but she’s undoubtedly stunning tonight; elegantly sexy in the dress she chose for the occasion, yes, but more than that, beautiful in the way her hair falls in tendrils around her face, cheeks coloured a soft rose by wine and contentment, eyes sparkling. It’s hard to remember a time when he wasn’t attracted to her body and to what little she had yet revealed of her mind, but now, years later and half a country away, the joys and losses they have accumulated changing them forever, Stiles has never been more in love with her.

Besides, he knows for a fact that she selected this dress with the deliberate aim of rendering him helpless with desire. Not that she needs to try, in that respect. 

"Oh please,'' replies Stiles calmly, licking a drop of sauce from his finger in a blatant violation of Lydia's  _ Rules For Dining in an Upscale Establishment. _ Her gaze follows the movement hungrily anyway. "You're not going home with anyone but me tonight."    
  
Her only response is to sigh in a long-suffering manner, but Stiles doesn't miss the fact that she immediately signals for the check. Nor can he ignore the teasing touch to his thigh - and, oh fuck, yes, apparently she's going even further - under the table.    
  
He glances around nervously, but he has learnt by now that Lydia is a pro at appearing elegant and unruffled on the surface while simultaneously engaging in acts of public indecency, which only serves to turn Stiles on even more, every time. A fact she unabashedly uses to her advantage, every time.    
  
On this occasion, Lydia chit-chats with their waiter, deftly deploying the ruthlessness veiled in civility that she perfected over years of hiding her true self, so that he is left scrambling (unsuccessfully) to make amends in the few efficient moments it takes her to pay their bill. All the while, she calmly works Stiles up so much that he cannot participate in the conversation at all; a rare and noteworthy occurrence, and particularly effective in this moment as it prevents him from berating the waiter - not that Lydia needs any help in effortlessly eviscerating him, of course, manner deceptively polite as she does so. As it is, though, she has sneakily ensured that Stiles is otherwise occupied, focused as he is on mustering up every shred of willpower in his possession in order to swallow his moans. His girlfriend, the evil genius, clearly takes his desperate silence as a challenge, increasing her efforts so that by the time he is expected to thank their server, he has no energy left for hostility, his voice already wrecked in a way that is painfully obvious. Oh well. It’s not as if he has ever clung to an overabundance of pride. 

The waiter, appropriately cowed, shows no sign of awareness, however. Lydia really  _ is _ an evil genius. They’re so lucky that she chose to use her mind for good.    
  
Stiles is admittedly a little more shamefaced when the time comes to actually leave the protective cover of their table, however. Lydia smiles sweetly at him as they stand, watching in amusement as he manoeuvres his jacket to drape conveniently over his arm in a transparent attempt to preserve what little dignity he has left. She isn’t the only one smirking at him as they wind their way towards the door, and Stiles is forced to silently add this restaurant to his mental list of Public Places To Which I Can Never Return. 

The chicken hadn’t been that great anyway, so it was no real loss, and besides, the waiter betraying his disapproval when Lydia ordered her dessert had definitively ensured that they would never eat there again. Really, the restaurant should be glad that they hadn’t resorted to fucking in the bathroom. (It wouldn’t have been the first time.)   
  
The universe apparently makes one more attempt to blacklist the place, however, even as the two of them make a hasty exit. Or rather, Lawyer Guy does. As they near his table en route to the door, he very obviously and lasciviously looks Lydia up and down, before imposing his own special brand of creepiness on her in the way of entitled men the world over.    
  
“You look hot tonight, baby. Sure you want to leave with him? Bet I could show you a real good time.” 

Stiles is predictably incensed, but he knows that Lydia is more than capable of dealing with this crap and doesn’t need another man pushing into her space right now, so he bites his tongue. It hurts.    
  
He’s right, of course. Lydia has never needed to rely on her powers in order to subdue men like this. She barely even breaks stride.

“Oh, honey, you couldn’t even dream of meeting my expectations. I have very high standards, which is exactly why I’m leaving with him and why you don’t have a hope in hell of catching my attention. Enjoy your night alone, though.”    
  
She sweeps past, hand firm in Stiles’ and giving no indication that she hears or cares about the bitterly muttered “slut” the piece of shit throws out in his pathetic attempt to salvage his ego. Stiles cares, though. He begins to spin around, ready to mouth off, but Lydia intercepts him, murmuring that she needs to “smooth out the wrinkles, Stiles, you really shouldn’t manhandle a suit like this, you know” as she brushes her free hand meaningfully over his carefully-arranged jacket in a calculated move to remind him where his priorities should remain. It is more than enough to chase any thought of Lawyer Creep from his head and he obediently resumes moving towards the door and freedom. 

Let it never be said, however, that Stiles is above a bit of petty revenge. 

The two of them spend several reckless moments entwined on the Ferrari that they do, indeed, find parked outside - will Lydia’s mind ever stop astounding him? Spoiler alert: absolutely not. (Thanks to all the supernatural shenanigans they've endured, Stiles' discovery that he is a little more than human has proved useful in many life and death situations - and now, apparently, also in disabling expensive car alarms to enable a spontaneous, and only slightly vindictive, make out session.) Stiles’ hand cups the back of her head, tangled luxuriously in her curls as they kiss, and Lydia wraps her legs around his waist (“just, oh god, to keep my dress from -  _ Stiles _ \- getting dirty”), the sharp press of her heels heightening his anticipation as she urges him even closer. 

Eventually they disentangle as much as they can bear and hurry over to Roscoe for some much-needed privacy, where Lydia proceeds to make it up to both Stiles and his beloved jeep, leaving no doubt as to where her affections really lie. There is undeniably a wicked delight in defiling the parking lot of such a fancy place (Roscoe’s innocence has long been a lost cause), particularly since they are feeling vindictive towards the people inside it, which serves to intensify proceedings.

Afterwards, they prepare to drive home, distinctly dishevelled and sleepily content, Lydia wearing only Stiles’ white button-down over her underwear, hair mussed as she curls up in her seat, the very picture of alluring debauchery. Stiles reflects that, chicken and misogynists aside, it had been a supremely enjoyable date night. Certainly, the evening had already reached a particularly satisfying conclusion for them both and, he suspects, there may be more… conclusions to be had, once they return home. 

And that’s one of the best things about their night together - there are a thousand moments of  _ Lydia _ to contend with, too, so that’s seriously saying something - really: they will shortly arrive back at their apartment, shut the door on the outside world and enjoy the freedom of the home they share. It’s a kind of peace that they’d both begun to believe would never be afforded to them, back when they were fleeing and fighting through the woods of their hometown, battling for their lives, their bodies and their very minds. The everyday mundanity of it thrills Stiles still. 

Two toothbrushes in the bathroom, Lydia’s extensive wardrobe squeezing out his own more modest collection of flannels and more recently-acquired formal wear, the Mets and Star Wars memorabilia that Stiles has - thanks to Lydia’s indulgent, unspoken leniency - not-so-subtly displayed, herbal teas stocked up in the kitchen, their considerable collection of books (which features such subjects as non-trivial zeros, mythology, criminal psychology, science fiction, Classical Latin, social anthropology, advanced mathematical theory and graphic novels, and includes Mary Shelley, Hans Christian Andersen, Paulo Coelho, J.M. Barrie, Margaret Atwood, Tolkien, a whole host of texts in other languages and, of course, the famous Argent Family Bestiary, supplemented by their own comprehensive research), photographs decorating the walls alongside Lydia’s artwork… everywhere Stiles looks, there are markers of not only their history, but also the everyday touchstones of their present. 

Not only did they survive their traumas, both individual and shared, they also built this  _ life _ \- again, both individual and shared. It is one that is filled with mathematics (Lydia) and intriguing mysteries (Stiles), with frequent Skype calls and visits with their pack ("I shouldn't be surprised, really. I knew that you and Scott were a package deal. But, brother or no, you'd better tell him to invest in some were-proof ear plugs if he's planning to stay for another night, Stiles." The horrified yelp from the living room that drowned out the beginnings of Stiles’ reply was followed by a hasty retreat out of the front door and Lydia, satisfied, kicked their bedroom door shut behind her, her own predatory smile in place). A life of honest to god cuddling (Lydia is unashamedly affectionate with him and Stiles is, well, Stiles), proud smiles from Stiles' dad and hard-won affection from Natalie. There are journal papers and acclaim (Lydia), closed cases and after-work drinks (Stiles) and the odd supernatural upheaval (both of them) that they face and, to date, vanquish, together. As ever, the two of them bicker (experts at both the Exasperated Eye Roll and the stubborn silence), staunchly support one another and exchange sharp ripostes that really serve rather as flirtation than anything else ("More like foreplay!" Malia protests wearily).   
  
It is, all in all, a life, one that each of them knows better than to take for granted, close as they have both come to never having this. Intimately as they know that some people never will.

Reversing out of the parking lot and trying not to let the play of light and shadow across Lydia’s face distract him, nor the tempting glimpse of skin above the buttons she has only half-heartedly fastened - a fruitless battle he should have abandoned long ago - Stiles spots Lawyer Creep watching them suspiciously as he unlocks his precious Ferrari. Thinking of the scratch left by Lydia’s stiletto heel as they hurried to their own car, he cheerfully accepts that this is another establishment at which they can never show their faces - or, indeed, any other part of their anatomy - again. He can't regret it.

Stiles holds a hand out to Lydia, humming happily when she presses a kiss to his skin before interlocking their fingers, and heads for home.

**Author's Note:**

> With love and thanks to Snick, who inspired this ficlet with a line from her own life, as well as kindly contributing Lawyer Guy (who later became Lawyer Creep, for Reasons) and also Stiles' List of Reasons Why Their Waiter is a Pig, in addition to Title Improvements, wise feedback and incredible support and encouragement. Essentially, Snick is beyond wonderful and I'm so lucky.
> 
> Shout-out to Rach, too, who introduced me to Teen Wolf and didn't shun me for loving Stydia. We've passed many a fun hour watching together, sharing our ~~rants~~ thoughts on the Good (Stiles), the Bad (many) and the Ugly (okay, fine, Beacon Hills doesn't have too much of this) and I love it. Rach is also fabulous and I love her. 
> 
> I wrote this by accident and then recklessly posted it pre-betaing, so apologies if it's a mess.


End file.
